


Dear Lucy

by Capsherlocked (Labracadabrador)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-05 00:26:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3098174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Labracadabrador/pseuds/Capsherlocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Faced with the realisation that his youngest child had developed an imaginary friend, John Winchester did what any loving, caring father would do. He put salt lines around the boy's bedroom, sang an exorcism as a lullaby that night, emptied a flask of holy water into the bathtub, and tested Sam with the silver spoon he'd had for his christening from an old relative of Mary's he could no longer remember the name of. All to no effect.</p><p>(Sam's got an imaginary friend. John remains unconvinced).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dear Lucy

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the FYSL 2014 Winter Exchange. Prompt was "Wings". I admit, this deviated a little from what I'd been planning, but I'm happy how it turned out.

Sammy was only one month away from his fifth birthday when he announced it, just before he sat down for the family meal John had tried to organise at the last minute when he'd gotten home earlier than expected from a hunt after another guy had shown up to help.

"Lucy's gonna need a place too." he said like it was an afterthought, the most casual thing in the world.

John didn't know what he was talking about. "Lucy?"

"Yep!"

"Is she a friend of yours from school?" He was fairly sure the only other person in their apartment was Dean, who was slouched on top of the table with his fist closed around his fork and looking half asleep, but he paid so little attention to his boys it wouldn't be the first time... "Where is she?"

"Um..." Sam gave him a long, hard look like he was missing something. Then he glanced to his side, just briefly, before turning back and grinning sheepishly. "It's okay. Lucy says he don't need a place so you don't have to make one."

Dean's ears had perked up at their conversation. "Sammy? You got a girl friend? Girls have cooties, you know." He yawned and rested his head back in the crook of his elbow. Sam's face screwed up in disgust.

"Eww no! Lucy's not a girl! And he don't have cooties either, right?" Another glance to the side, and Sam beamed triumphantly this time. "See?"

John tried to keep his voice as calm and normal as possible, but his mind was flashing to every monster he'd hunted these past four years, trying to find a match. "How long has Lucy been with you, Sammy?"

"Since ages ago."

"Yesterday? Today?" A bit of his panic was beginning to seep though, and whether consciously or not it was beginning to set both his boys on edge. "When did he show up?"

"I don't..." Sam closed his eyes, counting. "Tw-twenty ten? Thirty? Thirty days, about."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Y-you didn't ask..." He had curled up a little smaller than usual, showing a bit of fear on his face. Dean noticed and leaped in to defend.

"You never ask us _anything_ , Dad. You're never here."

The surge of guilt that rose up in John effectively cancelled that topic of conversation for the rest of their family meal - take-out pizza, fresh off a motorbike.

* * *

Faced with the realisation that his youngest child had developed an imaginary friend, John did what any loving, caring father would do.

He put salt lines around the boy's bedroom, sang an exorcism as a lullaby that night, emptied a flask of holy water into the bathtub, and tested Sam with the silver spoon he'd had for his christening from an old relative of Mary's he could no longer remember the name of. All to no effect. He put a bag of magical herbs that were meant to ward off evil spirits under Sam's pillow but the boy got hungry in the night and tried to eat them, resulting in a panicked Dean running into his room at two a.m. because Sammy was choking and needed help fast.

He arrived in pyjamas to see Sam sitting up on the floor and staring apprehensively at a spit-soaked bag, breathing hard. He'd got it out.

"Sorry." he said, very quietly, not looking at John. "Shouldn't have done it."

"Don't you _ever-_ " He stopped. Swallowed thickly. "Sam, if you want to eat something you can wait until breakfast. Putting things like this in your mouth can be very serious. Do you understand?" Who knows what kind of deadly herbs had been in there? At least he seemed unharmed.

"I promise. I'm not gonna do it again."

He was still looking away, and John suddenly had the horrible creeping sensation that he wasn't the one being responded to.

* * *

Jim agreed to take a look at Sam, and John drove him over there at one and a half times the speed limit. With two boys in the back seat and the corresponding chaos, it was a wonder he didn't crash.

"Are we nearly there yet?" Dean moaned. Sam had given up on pestering and was snoring, clutching a stuffed rabbit.

"Yes." John was finally able to say, through gritted teeth, as they pulled up in a parking spot. "Dean, wake Sammy up."

Dean patted him.

"...Huh?" Sam opened a bleary eye, then rolled over and went back to sleep.

"Alright, Sammy, up you come. Time to visit the good Pastor." John hoisted him and carried the half-awake boy who was mumbling something incoherent into Jim's house, Dean trailing behind the two of them like a lost puppy.

* * *

"Anything?"

Jim shook his head as he watched Sam muck about on the carpeted floor, stuffed rabbit still firmly in hand, playing a game with himself that John couldn't understand but that seemed to involve chasing empty air while giggling wildly.

"Nothing. No demonic influence, no witches, no evil spirits. That boy's fine, John. You're overreacting."

"You're sure?"

"There's one thing." Jim took a deep breath. "He shows up on EMF. Just a little. But most of our kind do - be in contact with the supernatural too much, and a bit rubs off. With what you said happened when he was a kid, I'd be surprised if it didn't happen. You've nothing to worry about."

"But it could be something?"

"John, you're _hoping_ that a dark creature is influencing your son. Accept what he is - it's perfectly normal for them to have imaginary friends at that age. Little Sammy doesn't have a good grasp of gender roles, so Lucy is an acceptable name for a boy to him. If he had lots of imaginary friends that seemed to be hurting him, I'd say you should you take him to a doctor, but as it stands..."

"But... Dean wasn't like-"

"Children are different." Jim reassured him. "I'd suggest you spend more time with Sammy. Lucy may be a manifestation of the loneliness he feels when you're gone. After all, Dean's eight - he can only do so much, and Sammy seems to be of the temperament that needs good care and attention to grow up happy."

John sighed and nodded. "I'll try harder."

"I'm sure you will." Jim got up from the chair and walked in Sam's direction, crouching down once he reached the edge of his play-space. "Sammy?"

Sam jolted and looked around in shock, before relaxing as his eyes focused on who it was. He deliberated a little before sitting on his bottom a little way away and watching a little warily. "Pastor Jim?"

"Your father's been telling me what a good boy you've been lately. No tantrums, no wetting the bed, and you're being nice to Dean. Well done, Sammy! You're a very big boy now."

"Uhm... yup."

"Does Mr. Rabbit have a name?"

Sam nodded. "Lucky. Because he's got a lucky foot."

"Sam, do you know who Lucy is?"

Sam turned his head to look at empty air, then briefly at John, before staring straight at Jim with a hasty "No. Lucy is nobody. Don't know him." His voice was a little panicked.

"John, could you leave the room, please?" As soon as his father was gone, Sam seemed to uncurl from himself and smile a bit wider. That was worrying. "If you like, I can keep it a secret from Daddy."

Sam grinned and giggled. "Nope. Lucy says you're just gonna say it to Daddy anyway." He snorted with laughter like this was the funniest thing in the world, before calming down a little to regain some breath. "But he also says it's okay if Daddy knows a bit about him, so everything is good."

"Can you tell me about Lucy?"

"Sure!" Sam nodded for emphasis. "Lucy's really cool, and he knows everything _ever_ , and he has a Daddy who's always away doing important stuff so he stays with me all the time. He reads me stories and plays games with me and sings me songs when it's bedtime. Oh and also he hugs me 'cause it gets lonely sometimes when Daddy's away, and Lucy knows what it feels like."

"That's nice, Sammy. Could you give me a physical description?" That was what he'd really wanted in the first place, just as a final check to see if the signs fitted that of a ghost or something only Sam could see.

"A fiz-what?" Sam broke off and looked to the side quickly before realisation broke out on his face. "You want to know that Lucy looks like? He looks like me!"

"How much like you?"

Sam scrunched up his face in concentration. "Well... I..." He stood up and held his hand just above his head. "He's this tall, but every time I catch up he grows a bit more so he's always taller than me. He has hair like me, only it looks nice without being brushed. And his eyes are like mine, except mine are boring and dull and his are a really _awesome_ bright blue that's so much cooler."

"Thank you, Sammy."

Sam smiled, "Thank you, Pastor Jim." he imitated politely. Jim got up and left, glancing back to see Sam once again totally engaged in the tag game.

John was waiting for him just outside. "Well?"

Jim took a deep breath. "There's something I have to tell you about your son, John."

* * *

 

"A prodigy? Sam?"

"Yes." Jim said. "He's what, five? Six?"

"Four."

"Then that's even _more_ of a gap between him and a normal child. He knows complicated words, tenses, plurals. You say he can count?"

"Up to thirty, yes."

"Most kids his age would have had a lot of trouble reaching ten. John, this is the sort of boy who is destined for an Ivy League education or even MIT. Has he started school?"

John shifted awkwardly. "We'll be moving soon, so I'll start him after that."

"He _needs_ to. It's no wonder he created a friend to talk to; there is nowhere for that brainpower to go. Lucy is just that - a friend, of Sam's creation. He made up someone who was like himself but better in every way. It's normal for imaginary friends to be exactly that."

"What should I do about it?"

"Leave Lucy alone. At most, if Sam insists on pretending he's there then ignore him. But these things clear up with time, and trying to make Lucy go away faster will just lose you Sam's trust. The best thing you can do now would be to teach him to read. Have you started?"

"Not yet."

"Then do it. He needs something to divert that brainpower." Jim eyed John with a steely pair of eyes. "Sam's not Dean, John. You can't get by with parenting on a shoestring like you did with your eldest. Maybe it's time to forget what you're trying to do, and focus on what Mary would have wanted for-"

"Don't you _dare_." John's eyes flashed. Abruptly he strode from the room. "Dean! Get Sammy. We're going back home."

They left like that, Dean trailing behind his Dad and pulling along Sam by one hand, who had Lucky clutched in the other, and Jim waving them off sadly while knowing that his advice wouldn't be heeded.

* * *

Once they were back home, it was getting dark and both boys were either asleep or nearly so. It had been a long, stressful day for all three of them. John gently picked up Dean, who wiggled a little to get a more comfortable position in his arms and then made a big display of snoring loudly.

"Oh no you don't, kid." John couldn't keep the grin from his voice. "You need to clean your teeth."

"Don't wanna... Sleepy..."

"Well, the sooner they're clean the sooner you can go to bed."

He dropped Dean off in the bathroom and went back down to collect up Sam - who was either properly sleeping or putting on such a good show of it that he couldn't tell the difference. He tried to walk lightly up the stairs so as not to wake the boy up.

"Sammy needs to clean his teeth, Dad." Dean said anxiously as he set Sam gently on his bed. "Otherwise they're gonna turn yellow and black and start hurting. And he needs to put pyjamas on or he'll get too hot in the night." He crossed to Sam's sleeping form and patted him on the forehead, waking him up. "Sammy, you gotta go clean your teeth."

"Mmmnnn...."

"C'mon, do it quick and then we can both sleep. Right, Dad?"

"Your brother's right, Sammy. It'll only take five minutes."

"Fine..." Sam groaned and hopped out of bed, padding for the doorway and grumbling to himself.

* * *

The next morning, John dug out one of the baby books from a box he'd stored away somewhere and set about teaching Sam to read.

"This is an A. It makes an 'ah' sound."

Sam stared at him oddly. "Um, Daddy, I already know that."

"Really?"

"Yep."

John flicked through a little further. "Tell me what this says."

Sam took the offered book and checked it, turning it around so it wasn't upside down. "The caterpillar sat on the log." He flipped it closed and read the back. "Published in one-nine-seven-eight. Copyright to Penguin Books Littered." He frowned. "Littered? That's not what it says. What does L-T-D mean?"

"That's not important. Sammy, are you-"

"Oh, _limited_. But that don't make sense either. Why would a penguin or a book be limited?"

"Sammy, look at me."

Sam stopped speaking and turned wide eyes to gaze, unblinkingly and without much focus, at John. it was slightly unnerving.

"Did Dean teach you how to read?" Shake. "Who was it then?"

"Lucy."

John sighed. "It must have been _someone_."

"Yep."

"But who?"

"Lucy." Sam chirruped again. "He reads me bedtime stories."

From the slightly avoidant look in Sam's eyes, John could work out two things: one, Sam had somehow taught himself and two, he didn't want John pestering him on this. Maybe he was embarrassed. So he tried a different tack.

"What's the biggest story Lucy has ever read for you?"

Sam's face lit up. "It's under my bed. It's my favourite one. I'll go get it if you want?"

He returned mere seconds later with the boundless energy of a child, a battered old copy of _The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe_ held in both hands, and presented it proudly.

"It's got a _lion_ in it."

It did, of course. If John remembered correctly, it also had a main character named Lucy. Maybe that was where Sam had got the name from.

"Right, so if you can start reading and if you don't know what any of the words mean, just ask me."

"Okay!"

Sam opened it to a crinkled corner and stared silently at the words on the page. John was about to ask him if he was all right when he saw Sam's eyes flicking back and forth, and then he turned to the next page and kept going.

"Are you reading in your head, Sammy?"

"Mhm." Sam didn't look up, now almost totally engrossed in this book.

"Well... I'll go see if I can make you boys some lunch, then."

"Mhm."

Sam looked up as he left the room, rolled his eyes, and said "My Dad's even weirder than yours, Lucy." but when John looked back he'd gone straight back to his book and probably hadn't even intended for him to hear that.

* * *

A week went past, then two, and John _tried_ to be more there for his boys - but they'd grown so independent when he wasn't there that now, when he was, there didn't seem to be much he could do. Dean could cook pasta and rice and beans on toast, so John deemed him ready to start wielding one of the slightly less sharp knives to cut up meat that would go with what he made. Sam spend most of his time playing with toys or reading or drawing in a childish scribble.

So John congratulated him when he saw that Sam had managed to make a sizeable likeness of himself - it was no masterpiece, but he could just make out that it was meant to be Sam instead of a generic human stick figure.

"Well done, Sammy. Is that you?"

"No." Sam pouted and huffed. "That's Lucy." To emphasise this he scribbled the eyes in blue and made Lucy a bit taller by rubbing out his feet and extending the legs.

"Oh."

* * *

John tried. He tried, and he tried hard. But he grew more restless as the days went by, and then the call came in from one of his contacts - they were gearing up to take on the Aran coven, the big vampire nest that had been a thorn in the hunting community's sides for nearly three years now. His help was needed more there than here.

He estimated it would take a week, so he doubled the time and left two week's grocery money with Dean along with instructions on how long it should last, wrote an apology note that signed him out of school with the third bout of 'illness' he'd had this term, and gave both his boys one last hug.

"Are you going to fight monsters again?" Dean asked him in a hushed whisper in his ear. John thought about lying, but he nodded.

"I know you can take care of Sammy while I'm gone, Dean."

"Yes, sir." Dean saluted, then reached out his arms for another hug with tears beginning to build in his eyes. John lifted him up and swung him around in a circle, causing a delighted laugh.

"You're a big boy - soon you'll be too heavy for that!"

"Yup."

"Bye Daddy!" Sam grinned at him.

Dean did too, but then the grin slid off his face. "Bye, Daddy. Please come back."

John waved goodbye, and both of his kids waved back. Dean had an arm around Sam's shoulders.

* * *

As he'd estimated, it took about a week to get over there in the Impala, meet with the group, kit themselves out, wait for the last members to arrive, plan the raid, then execute it one sunny morning with machetes at the ready and a grim smile on all their faces. This might be the last time any of them saw the sunrise.

The coven were _ready_ for them. They _knew_ , thanks to a spy they'd planted, some hunter John hadn't seen before and he guessed only hadn't been suspected because he was one hundred percent, fully human. This coven were smart. They recruited in advance, the people serving them having been brainwashed that being turned was a good thing and then promised it in return for a year of service.

There were five other humans around the vampires' nest, guarding the place during the day, unaffected by sunlight and carrying machine guns and rocket launchers against the hunters' glorified knives. It was a slaughter, a massacre. They lost five men and another one had a blown-off leg that would put them out of the hunting scene for the rest of their life.

At least they managed to get two vampires and one human in return for their sacrifice.

The second week was spent working out plans of attack, the remaining six hunters having unanimously decided that it was now or never. They tried a night raid, when the humans were sleeping, and that netted them one more vamp with no casualties on their side. But the next night, they lost a man then the vampires retaliated, and after that it became a war of stealthy attacks and heavily armoured defences. The enemy weren't the only ones with machine guns at their disposal.

That meant the vampires, now that their spy had been executed, were taken completely by surprise by the full-frontal assault in the early hours of the morning at the end of week two. No stealth - this was it, guns blazing, and it cracked them. Seven vamps, all four humans, and for only one casualty on their side. Brian was a good man and killed himself rather than letting the venom turn him.

* * *

The vamps they hadn't killed scattered to the winds, and they were divided up among the remaining hunters. John got one called Matthew - not his real name, but the one he'd used on the plane ticket to hop halfway across the country and then vanish without a trace. He spent a week tracking the trail to no avail.

He knew the vamp was playing with him. Probably watching his every move. John rigged it so the slightest hint of an attack meant he'd be ready.

When the battle did come, it was short, ending with a couple of bloody gashes for him and even nastier ones for the vamp. He watched it flee into the night and knew from how it ran that there was defeat there. He should track it again, hunt it down and slay it once and for all. Then he could finally get back to his kids.

With a sense of creeping horror, he checked the date.

* * *

 It was eleven – no, John checked his watch, the two he’d seen from the corner of his eye was a zero now he looked straight at it – it was three in the morning when the Impala pulled up outside their apartment and he fiddled in his pocket for the keys. His head felt like it was going to split and there was dried blood on the back of his neck.

“Dean?” he whispered in a rusty tone once he had carefully opened the flat door. Both his boys would hopefully be asleep, but his eldest had developed an unfortunate habit of staying up to wait for him each night if his hunting trip had taken longer than he said it would. Sure enough, there was a voice from the darkness.

“Daddy?” John was tackled in a quiet hug and he reached down to pat Dean’s hair.

“You’re up late. I hope you put Sammy to bed?”

He expected a nod against his leg, the usual response to this question that had been asked a dozen times before, but instead he felt Dean tense up. “Is something the matter?”

“Sammy... he’s not letting me into our room. I dunno if he’s asleep or not, but he’s been sulking all week.”

“All week? Has he been stopping you going to bed?” That was going too far. He’d have to have a serious talk with Sam in the morning. Now that John looked, he could see dark bags under Dean’s eyes in the glow of the nightlight set up on the wall.

“It’s okay, though. I got a sleeping bag and the sofa’s comfy.” Dean shrugged. “Sammy’s really upset. I don’t know how to make him feel better. I tried, but...”

“Why is Sammy upset?”

“I think it’s ‘cause you missed his birthday, Daddy. It was last Sunday, and you weren’t there. I kept telling Sammy that you’d be back in time, ‘cause you left us two weeks money and no more, but then the money ran out and I had to use the last of it to get one of those massive pasta packs so we’d have food for a bit longer. So he ain’t got no presents either.”

John sighed. He should have known, should have remembered. The fault of this was, as usual with his children, squarely on his shoulders.

“I’m sorry. Have you been eating?”

“It was okay. Pasta’s boring, though. It was gonna run out tomorrow night so I’m really happy you’re back. Did you kill the bad monster?”

“Yes.” John smiled and Dean returned it, relieved. “He’s gone. He won’t be hurting anybody else.”

“Thank you, Daddy. I don’t know how I could be as brave as you.”

“No need to thank me, Dean. We’re Winchesters, and that’s what Winchesters do.”

“That’s what Winchesters do!” Dean repeated with enthusiasm. “Maybe you can talk to Sammy. He’s been really upset. I had to put his pasta in through the cat flap and I’m not sure he’s drinking enough water.”

The two of them crept through the hallway towards the boys’ room, Dean filling John in on everything that had happened while he had been away. “-And Sammy’s being a big baby, because he did get a present. I gave him the last of the shopping money to go get an ice cream and he didn’t even share with me!”

They reached the door. There was a makeshift ‘KEEP OUT’ sign written on paper in shaky child’s handwriting and stuck on with blu-tac. John tried the handle. Locked, but he didn’t expect it not to be. The door to this room would be the last line of defence protecting his kids if a monster managed to break in. He’d made darn well sure it was sturdy back when he’d looked into renting the place, and installed a lock that could only be opened from the inside.

John was about to call out, to wake Sam up and tell him to let his brother back in in three seconds or he’d be in a lot of trouble, but he heard a voice talking, softly, from beyond it. He shushed Dean with a finger to his lips and pressed his ear to the miniscule crack at the unused keyhole.

“...It going to happen again?”

That was definitely Sam’s voice, but whoever he was talking to was a mystery John couldn't figure out. “I need to know how long. Longer or shorter?” Even straining, John couldn’t hear anything that sounded like even a hint of a reply. “’Snot too bad, I guess. Wish you’d told me before, though. I missed you.”

Was Sam talking to him?

John quietly knocked on the door and he heard the scamper of a newly turned five-year old’s footsteps on the other side.

“Sammy?”

“Daddy?” The lock clicked and the door swung open, revealing a very sleep-deprived Sam with bags under his eyes and a huge grin on his face. “It is you!” Sam jumped into his arms and John hugged him tightly.

“Now, what’s this I hear about you not letting Dean in your room?”

“Huh?” Sam’s confused face was the perfect picture of childlike innocence. John raised an eyebrow at him, and he made himself look even more innocent in response.

Dean huffed. “No pretending, Sammy!”

Sam struggled in John’s arms and was put back down on the floor. He toddled over and hugged Dean instead. “I’m sorry. Shouldn’t have. It was just... He was gone, y’know?”

“Yeah, Sammy. I know.” Dean hugged him tightly back.

John was struck with the sense that he was intruding on something. He cleared his throat. “I want both of you two in bed and lights out in ten minutes. Daddy needs to sleep too, and he can’t do it if both his boys are jumping around their room and throwing things at each other like you usually do when I come back.”

“Not even pillow fights?”

“Not even pillow fights.” John confirmed, then relented: “But we can have one in the morning.”

Sam shot into bed and pulled the covers up over him, trying to force himself to go to sleep so he’d wake up faster. Dean had the sense to know that wouldn’t work and settled for a more leisurely approach, tiptoeing around the neatly stacked plastic plates by the door with starch smears on them from the pasta both his boys had been eating for the past week.

As John closed the door quietly on them, he resolved that he’d make them a proper cooked breakfast tomorrow to make up for it.

Then whispers started up, and he pressed his ear to the keyhole again.

“Sammy?”

“Yep?”

“Want me to read you a bedtime story?”

A rustling of covers. “Lucy will-“ More rustling. “I can read it myself.”

“’Kay. Night, Sammy.”

“Night, Dean.”

John was smiling all the way back to his room.

* * *

 

_“Doesn’t.”_

“Don’t.”

_“Does – nt.”_

“Dossent.”

_“Doesn’t, Sam.”_

“Doesn’t?”

_“Yes, like that.”_

Sam grinned.

* * *

 

He woke up to the whistle of an object through the air aimed right at his face. John dodged it, and the pillow in Dean’s hands floofed into the spot where his head used to be.

“Piiiiillow fiiiiight!” came Sam’s exhilarated yell, as he pounced and swung his own.

Of course he retaliated. John picked up his pillow and wielded it like a sword, parrying the blow and already nearly on his feet. He couldn’t stand up on the bed without hitting the ceiling, but there was enough room for crouching as his younger, shorter kids circled around him, looking for an opening.

Already they worked so well together, the bond of trust between them strong enough that they could predict the other’s actions. Dean dived and swung at John’s left side, and his block was interrupted when a heavy lump of five year old tackled his right leg and nearly overbalanced him. Dean got one good whack to John’s face with the pillow, and he returned the favour. Sam was still a bundle of pyjamas attached to his legs, severely restricting movement, so when Dean scampered out of arm’s reach there wasn’t much John could do about it.

That was a lie, of course. John had seen down monsters far stronger and more violent than his kids, and if he’d wanted to he could have had both of them pinned within two seconds of the surprise wake up. But where was the fun in that?

“All right, I yield, I yield!” he exclaimed, struggling to hold in his laughter as Dean dive-bombed on top of him. “You two win this time!”

“Dean, we did it!” Sam beamed, detaching himself from John’s ankle and jumping gleefully on top of the pile of bodies. “We got Daddy! He doesn’t ever let that happen!”

“I’ll beat you two next time!” John promised, and added: “Now who wants bacon and eggs for breakfast?”

Twin pairs of hopeful and excited eyes were suddenly fixed on him. “Me!” Sam and Dean chorused as one.

“Then gerroff, you great lumps. I’ve got to go to the shop. Dean, have the frying pan out for when I get back.”

All of a sudden, his movement was no longer restricted, which was thankful. “Yes sir!” Dean saluted and beamed at him.

John ruffled his hair. “Good boy.” Then, because Sam was looking awfully left out, he gave his youngest son a hug. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten, Sammy. I’ll be bringing back a birthday present for you too.” Sam had tears in his eyes, he was smiling so hard.

* * *

 

John noticed as he entered the flat, shopping bag in one hand, that someone had opened the door while he’d been away. The handle which he always left a small amount off-centre had returned to its default position of pointing straight while he was out. It was probably nothing, but...

“Boys?” he called as he entered. There was no response. John reached into the sleeve of his jacket and pulled out one of the small iron knives tipped with silver that he kept on himself at all times these days. The metal sang as he removed it from his sheath. Padding lightly, trying to make as little noise as possible, he checked the kitchen. Empty, though there was a frying pan lying on the vinyl floor. The lounge – empty – his room – empty.

It was on approaching Sam and Dean’s room that he heard the first sound that wasn’t from himself. From behind the door there was muted shuffling, and a muffled voice like someone trying to speak with their mouth covered. “Boys?” he tried again. The sounds increased in volume and urgency. John tried the door and found it locked – of course, though he’d prepared for this eventuality. The lock could only be opened from the inside or by someone with the right key. He had the only one.

With a click and a creak the hinges swung forward and John advanced, knife in hand. The window was shattered, and there were streaks of red that could only be blood around the frame. Dean was tied up in the corner with a paper envelope left next to his bound feet, watching him with pleading, tearful eyes and a piece of duct tape over his mouth. There was no sign of Sam. John reached down and tore off the tape, prompting the release of a string of half-garbled words, the only phrase of which that registered in John’s mind being-

“He took Sammy!”

“Who was it, Dean? What did it look like?”

“He took Sammy! Imma kill that sonofabitch!”

“Dean!” he thundered. “Don’t use that word! Now tell me what it looked like.”

He busied himself trying to work the bindings off. From the pink soreness around Dean’s wrists, he’d been attempting the same thing. It made John proud, even though there was no time for pride in a situation like this. “He... it was really tall, and dark hair, and red eyes. Daddy, what do we do? Sammy’s gone!”

Dean was in hysterics now, his worry for his little brother clearly outstripping any fear he’d felt, and John felt that should be a good thing except he had one eight-year old on the warpath that wouldn’t last three seconds against the vampire. He picked up the note once he’d used the knife to cut the tightest bindings, leaving Dean to shrug off the rest. It read as follows.

_I have your son. I am at 34 Mapleark Avenue. If you want to see him again come alone._

There was no signature, but it was obvious who had written it. Matthew, the one who had escaped, the one they hadn’t managed to round up. The reason why? He wanted immunity, which meant he wanted John’s head on a spike before the hunter tracked him down and he’d seen the kids as the easiest way to go about it. John let out a huge breath, and as it whistled out of him his whole body seemed to deflate.

“Dean, I need you to stay here for a little while.”

“No way! I’m coming with you to get Sammy back!”

“You can’t. This says I have to go by myself.”

“Let me see.”

John held it out of Dean’s reach and pocketed it before it could be swiped. “No. But only one person can go.”

“Then I’ll go.” Exactly what he’d feared.

“Dean, this is one of those monsters I was telling you about. They are bad. They would kill you if they had the chance.”

“But they did have the chance, and I’m still here!”

Only to carry the message. To prove authenticity. The reason the vampire had taken the younger brother was probably because Sam was physically weaker and quite a bit more docile, and leaving behind Dean was a sign of good faith. After all, if he wanted a deal it would be better to keep on John’s good side. Backed into a corner, there was nothing else he would be able to do.

“That doesn’t mean they wouldn’t kill you if they got another chance.”

“They wouldn’t. I’d kill them first, the sonova-“ Dean grinned sheepishly at John’s sudden glare. “Sonovaverybadperson?”

“There’s bacon in the shopping bag downstairs. I trust you with the cooker, so you’d better make enough for all three of us. I’ll be back with Sammy as soon as I can and he’ll need his big brother to take care of him. Do you understand, Dean?”

“...Yeah.”

“Good boy.”

* * *

 

Mapleark Avenue was one of those streets wide enough for four or five cars plus sidewalk and even trees, spaced tastefully between the house entrances. It would look beautiful in Fall, but in the dull grey light of a Winter’s morning their branches loomed ominously like clawing hands as John walked underneath them.

His machete was as well concealed as it could be so as not to scare the residents. Matthew would get annoyed if the police came down on his hiding area, and an annoyed vampire meant a dead son. He hated hostage negotiations. It went against every instinct of his training and his hunting experience to leave himself so vulnerable.

House 34 was modern with a couple of floor-to-ceiling windows and a gravel drive that crunched as he walked up it no matter how quiet he tried to be, and that too made John wince internally. But then...

There was movement in the upstairs window. A child was sitting, poised in a near-impossible position with artful grace, on the railing inside the room. His child. Sam. Sam waved at him and smiled down, but everything about him screamed wrong in John’s head. The position he was in was too hard for a human to balance, let alone the clumsy five-year-old that was his son. He couldn’t tell if it was the reflection of light from the window or some eerie sheen, but Sam’s eyes were piercing blue even from this far off. They were supposed to be hazel. And the shadow behind him, flickering on the wall... were those... ...Wings?

Sam’s mouth formed three words, exaggerated and obviously meant for him to lip read: “ _Welcome, John Winchester._ ” Then he kicked off and flipped backwards, twisting through the air, again something that wasn’t within human bounds to do, landing on his feet and carrying the momentum into a run. He was out of sight down the hallway before John could even start to think up a reply.

A heavy, cold knot began to form in John’s stomach. What Sam had done was not possible.

Not for a human.

But maybe, just maybe, for a vampire.

Had they turned him? The thought made vomit rise in John’s throat. His own son, one of them... It was the only explanation that came to mind. The eyes and the wings could easily have been tricks of the light, brought on by his panicked state, but he couldn’t have mistaken the graceful way Sam had leapt into the air like a predator chasing down prey.

With nothing else for it, he knocked on the door and it swung open with the force of his fist. Unlocked. John checked there was nothing behind him and drew the machete from its storage place.

His first thought was that the house was surprisingly well lived in for a place he’d expected to be abandoned. The carpet was almost dust-free, although the air smelt like burning rubber and the sound of silence hung heavy all around.

Upstairs. That was where he’d seen Sam, so that was where he was going and damn all strategic plans.

He made it three steps up the spiral staircase and froze, staring at the foot that had come into view. A man’s, or a large woman’s, but not a child’s. It wasn’t moving. John moved further up the stairs until the body was in full view. Though the face was nearly unrecognisable, he could tell it was Matthew by the clothes, the ones he’d been wearing at the nest. He wasn’t breathing – though he wouldn’t be – and his hair was shining with blood, mouth open and fangs extended in a soundless scream.

His eyes... It was hard to tell, the damage was so extensive, but they looked as if they had been ripped or cut away from their sockets and the wound then cauterized with fire. There was no sign of the eyeballs, but a trail of blood was staining the stair carpet leading up the steps. Whoever had done this had done it on the landing, then pushed the body down.

John took this all in impassionately, emotions switched off for the time being as he became very aware of the danger surrounding him. The head was still attached, which meant the vampire was alive and merely lying in wait – but with that sort of damage he’d be blind, no doubt about it. He needed to swing the machete at just the right angle so it would be silent, and by the time Matthew realized it would be far too late. He’d expected at least some sort of a struggle, but the body didn’t even jerk as he swung clean through its neck. It was almost as if it had already been dead. Curious...

Reality slammed back into John. Sam. Wherever Sam was, he was in the same house as the monster that had done this. (Or he was the monster. John tried not to think about that.)

“Sammy?” he croaked, throat having gone dry from the stress. No answer.

John continued up the stairs. Sam was sitting by the window where he’d been seen before, on the floor this time, nose buried in an old, slightly weary book. John glimpsed the title: _The Voyage of the Dawn Treader_. He didn’t recognise it, and Sam didn’t even seem to have heard him.

“Sammy?” he tried again. Sam looked up and his face split into a grin.

“Knew you’d come. Saw you from the window.”

“Where did you get that book?”

“Shelf downstairs.” Sam shrugged. “Hadn’t read it yet.”

Sam’s eyes were most definitely hazel, and his cheeks still had that flush of blood that vampires couldn’t fake no matter how hard they tried. John caught him up into a tight hug (Sam protested as a corner of his book got bent), and his spirits lifted at the warmth and the heartbeat that was still there.

“Come on, Sammy, let’s go home.” He put Sam down and set off in the direction of the stairs, then froze. If it hadn’t been Sam who had done that to the vampire...

...Who had? John turned around and cursed himself internally for dropping his guard like that. “Sammy, I need you to tell me if you saw anyone.”

“Huh? No, we checked. The whole house is empty now.”

That was a relief – wait? “We? Who do you mean?”

“Lucy and me, of course.” Sam stared back at him like he was dumb.

John let out a tense breath. “Okay, okay. Sammy, do you know what’s on the stairs?”

“He’s still on them? I was trying to push him all the way down.”

“The man?”

“Yes. I didn’t like him and he was distracting, so I pushed him.”

“I-“ John couldn’t even make sense of things any more. “Was he dead when you pushed him?”

It was the only logical explanation, even if vampires didn’t die that easily. Sam nodded in response.

“Did you see who killed him?”

“Nope.”

What a relief. His son didn’t need to see death anymore than –

“But I know who did it.”

“Who?”

“Lucy.” John’s blood ran cold. “He didn’t let me watch, though. He never lets me watch.”

Sam was pouting. Pouting, oblivious to the terrifying danger that had just revealed itself.

“Lucy has done this before?”

“Only once. Last week, when some guy said he’d sell me ice cream but tried to drag me into his car instead. Lucy took ages that time and wouldn’t even let me see the body.”

“Is he here now?”

“Lucy? Nope, he has to go away after doing it. It’s pretty tiring, but he says it won’t be so long this time. Only a day or so. He’s getting stronger!”

“Are you telling me that some... some... spirit that can take shape and kill things is following you around?” First a human, then a vampire – what next? A trail of destruction and death following his youngest son. It was exactly what he’d feared.

Sam seemed to have at last picked up on the fact that something wasn’t quite right. Maybe it was the look on John’s face – he was sure he wasn’t able to completely mask his horror. But instead of understanding the gravity of the situation, he got defensive. “Lucy’s my friend! He wouldn’t hurt me and anyway, he needs my body to do anything.”

“He’s possessing you?!”

“Yeah, but he asks permission so it’s _fine_!”

John swallowed down a scream of frustration and clenched his hands so tightly that little nail marks cut into his palms. “Why don’t we... go and get... Dean? He’s made us both bacon. I’m sure you’ve been getting bored of the house, so we can go visit Pastor Jim again after that.”

“Is it one of the ten slice ones?”

“What?”

Sam repeated, clarifying: “The bacon pack. Is it one of the ten slice ones or one of the five slice ones?”

“Er...” John had no idea where this conversation had turned to, but at least the tension had deflated. “Ten slice, I think.”

“I want four slices.”

“...Okay?”

“Okay, let’s go!” Sam didn’t even look at the vampire’s body, stepping deftly around the blood seemingly without thinking about it. John followed and tried not to be too unnerved by the charcoal eyes of the head that had bounced down the stairs and now gazed sightlessly up at them from the first floor.

* * *

 

He put Sam in the front seat so he didn’t have to let the boy out of his sight, and slaughtered the speed limit on the way home. A day, the boy had said, before the spirit would return. John knew he was witnessing the formation of a powerful, vengeful one.

It didn’t matter that Sam believed it harmless. They all started out harmless. He’d learned that many times over these past few years. No human, not even the dead ones, ever liked to think itself as evil – the road to Hell was paved with good intentions. Like protecting someone. Like taking revenge on anyone who had allowed them to come to harm.

(John tried to never think what that said about him and where he was heading).

Dean was waiting at the door and caught Sam in a hug. While the boys quickly became deeply engaged in frantic chattering, John packed up the slightly charred bacon into some of the rolls out of the shopping bag and shoved one in his mouth. He was ravenous.

He kept one ear out.

“-No, it was really weird, I’d never thought how big everywhere is before. Usually you can’t see enough of the really far away stuff to know it. But then I looked down and Daddy was there!”

“Did he have the big machete out?”

“Yeah! Anyway, Lucy told him to come in, and then we ran downstairs to get a book, and he was fading a bit by then and he couldn’t move stuff on his own, but he helped me push off the bad guy because the landing had the most light but I couldn’t read with him there, and then Daddy came in!”

“That’s enough, you two.” John handed them each a bacon roll – he’d swallowed his in three huge bites.“We’re going to see Pastor Jim.”

“Again? But we did that a month ago!”

“Dean, stop it.”

Dean stopped it.

"Sam rides in the front seat, you in the back. No arguments.”

There were no arguments.

* * *

 

The Pastor’s house was surrounded by a garden that would be lush in summer, but in winter drooped drearily with each blade of grass coated in frost. It crunched under John’s feet for the second time that day as he walked behind his boys and they approached the doorway. It was opened before they could knock or ring a bell.

“Sammy? Dean? Hello there, you two!” Jim beamed down at them. “Dean, didn’t I see you just last week? I could swear you’re taller! How old are you?”

“Eight!”

“And I’m five now!” Sam chirped in.

“Already five? Keep that up and soon you’ll be as old as me!” Jim chuckled and caught John’s grim look out of the corner of his eye. He nodded ever so slightly. “Happy Birthday! Now why don’t you two come inside and I’ll make you both hot chocolate. You must have been on the road for a while.”

John refused to let Sam out of his sight, which meant their conversation took place in hushed whispers in the kitchen doorway while they both watched the boys throwing mini marshmallows into each others’ mouths.

“You’re sure about this?”

“Clear as day. Their eyes were burned out of their sockets, but there wasn’t any way you could make that mark with hot metal or ceramic.”

“That doesn’t mean his imaginary friend is responsible. Sam could have internalised the trauma and invented an alternate explanation for what he saw. He wouldn’t even know he was lying.”

“He had wings, Jim, and his eyes were bright blue. I saw them.”

Jim smiled. “That sounds more angelic than particularly supernatural to me. Perhaps Sam has a guardian watching out for him.”

“Oh, for God’s sake-“ John had started to raise his voice, so he cut off and continued in a whisper. “You know angels don’t exist. Don’t go off on a religious crusade when my son is in very real danger.”

“Unfortunately, you are right. Theological concerns aside, I very much doubt this creature is heavenly in origin. However, by taking on the appearance and duties of a guardian angel it may have made itself vulnerable to a very particular type of ward. I’m assuming you’ve tried the Pater Noster and the other prayers?”

“No effect. He didn’t even flinch.”

“And you’re sure it’s a creature.”

“Yes.”

“We should wait until it comes back to be certain. This... ward... requires considerable sacrifice and Sam may not forgive you.”

“Jim, if you don’t-“ John flicked his eyes over to the two boys. They were sipping their drinks, pointedly not looking at him in a way that told John they were listening raptly to the conversation. “Dean, I want you to watch Sammy for me. Make sure he stays safe.”

“Yes sir.”

They retreated to a safer spot, and John continued: “I am one hundred percent sure of this, Jim. Don’t make me do something more drastic by not telling me what you know.” he kept his voice very calm.

* * *

 

Three hours later, John sent Dean off on a walk to the shops to buy a chocolate bar. He felt a twinge of panic watching his son go off alone, but Dean could take care of himself and he’d be out of the way for the next half hour. He studied the symbol again, practising sketching it as quickly as possible onto a piece of blank paper.

“What language did you say it was?”

“Enochian. Heraldic script. The man who designed it claims he saw visions; whether or not that is true is not my place to say. But it has incredible power, so I prefer not to question how. It may not work.”

“But you think it will?”

“Yes.” Jim had a haunted look on his place. “I have seen it work.”

“Then why-“

“I am troubled because this ward banishes those who would carry themselves as angels. With the nature of the ritual, it seems... unholy.”

“You won’t be doing it.”

“No. He is your child. It wouldn’t be right.”

“No.”

“Sam won’t go quietly.”

“I know.”

* * *

 

Sam didn’t go quietly. He didn’t realise what was happening at first, but when he did he screamed and kicked and raised a hellstorm. However much he struggled, he was only five, and against a trained hunter he couldn’t make headway.

Tears beaded in his eyes as his protests grew more feeble, but Sam refused to let them fall. The betrayal shining out through them made John’s heart twist as he strapped down Sam’s right forearm to the table. It needed to be still.

“Don’t do it, Daddy.”

“Sammy-“

“Don’t call me Sammy. You don’t have the right.”

“Sam.”

“Don’t do it.”

Knowing he was the worst dad in the world, John readied the knife. Sam’s eyes went wide and the tears finally fell, and then he was begging – not to John, to the spirit, the one he called Lucy. The words blurred past John’s ears as he focused on the skin of Sam’s arm. He had to do it quickly and accurately, cutting the skin as shallowly as possible. The blood was required for the symbol to work, but he wouldn’t make this any more painful for his son than he absolutely had to.

The lights flickered and dimmed. John blinked and then refocused, ears adjusting to the silence. Sam stared back at him, eyes blazing blue, completely calm.

“Do not do this. You do not know what you are meddling with, John Winchester.”

“You!” All hesitation vanished, to be replaced by cold fear. John swiped the knife and began carving out the symbols.

“Why aren’t you stopping me?”

“I can’t.” Something in that voice sounded strained. “It won’t let me. Don’t do this. Leave me here. I won’t hurt him. I save him.”

“Go back to Hell, you demon.” He completed the symbol and yelled three words that made his throat scorch and burn.

_“No, Michael-“_

The lights exploded into a shower of glass and left dark shapes imprinted onto John’s eyes.

His strength fled from him.

He passed out.

* * *

 

He came round in a chair in Jim’s lounge, the sun inching lower in the sky, the shapes still faintly visible as dark spots that flashed white when he blinked. Wings. Or not; they could easily be random shapes.

“Sam...”

“He’s okay. He woke up before you did.” Jim was in the chair across from him. “He doesn’t remember the spirit. It seems his mind was wiped.”

“Today-“

“He doesn’t remember any of today. Said something about a pillow fight. It was a last act of mercy by the spirit, I think. Dean wants to see you. Should I let him in?”

“Yes...” There was a bone deep tiredness pulling his eyelids closed, but he had to see his sons.

“Daddy?”

He hugged Dean. “Did you get that chocolate, Dean?”

“Pastor Jim’s not telling me anything. What-“

“Lucy is gone. Don’t tell Sam. Lucy was one of the bad monsters.”

“I knew it.” Dean said grimly. John started.

“What?”

“That Lucy was bad. ‘Cause he stopped me reading Sammy his bedtime stories. And sometimes I’d see him at night.”

“What did he look like?”

“Like light, only dark. He had wings, but they were shadow. A fallen angel.”

It struck John then that he’d never learned what the spirit was.

 


End file.
